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‘lord’, even if she
could call Anna by her first name) had rebuilt the castle after it
was destroyed by the English and made it twice as fine, according
to those who’d seen the old one, with a great hall, guest quarters,
barracks, a stable, and two kitchens.
    However, Bridget found the lack of running
water unforgivable. She would never, ever, get used to latrines, no
matter how long she lived in the Middle Ages. Just last night,
Bridget had drunk a little too much in anticipation of their
departure today, and she’d begged David to put the invention of
toilets and showers at the top of his agenda. Having drunk almost
nothing himself, he’d laughed, saying that they weren’t that hard,
and he’d see to it.
    And now he was gone. Arrogant little
bugger.
    Stretching the full length of the summit of
the mountain, the castle was surrounded by a high curtain wall and
a series of ditches and ramparts dating from Celtic times. Anyone
who approached the castle had to wend his way through the ramparts
in order to reach the gate. Even Bridget, who’d grown up in Avalon,
had no trouble imagining archers shooting down at her from the top
of the walls on both sides. She craned her neck to see them but
couldn’t in the fading light.
    “Don’t worry. They’re there,” Peter said
from beside her.
    Another good sign as to Peter’s intentions
was that he hadn’t left her side yet. Even when Justin slowed his
horse to confer with Peter about who might be responsible for the
attack, Peter hadn’t abandoned her and had even included her in the
conversation. Of course, it was just business, and since her shop
was the clearinghouse for news from the whole of western England,
she might have as much to say on the subject as he.
    Though she didn’t. She had no idea who might
have ambushed an emissary from France. David had his nobles pretty
well under control as far as Bridget knew, and while she didn’t
know the Welsh situation as well, she’d thought Llywelyn did too.
Apparently, she’d thought wrong.
     
    Bridget tagged along with the others,
uncertain of her right to listen in on the conversation with the
ambassador, but she figured if someone didn’t want her there,
they’d tell her. Peter had helped her dismount, and though he
didn’t take her hand again, he didn’t object to her company either.
They entered Math’s receiving room behind Goronwy and Ieuan, though
Bridget hung back against the wall. She still wore her modern
clothing and thought it best that she didn’t call attention to
herself.
    Geoffrey de Geneville paced impatiently
before the fire, while the heavily pregnant Queen of England tried
to appease him.
    Though Bridget had seen Geoffrey de
Geneville only once, she’d heard about him in great detail from
some of the other twenty-firsters. Tall, thin, and white-haired,
with fine clothes and a haughty manner, he was everything a
medieval lord should be. He’d lost his heir not long ago, however,
and Bridget’s impression of him was that he wore his grief around
him all the time like a cloak.
    “My lady, I must see the king!” Geoffrey was
saying at the very moment Ieuan pushed open the door.
    “He’s gone to Avalon, Geneville.” Ieaun
didn’t even look at Geoffrey as he spoke but strode towards his
sister. He caught her hand and kissed the back of it. Then he
glanced at his wife, Bronwen, who sat a few paces away from Lili’s
chair, her hands folded in her lap. She’d been looking at the floor
while Geoffrey had been speaking, but she looked up at Ieuan’s
approach, her eyes flashing. He gave her a nod, which Bridget
interpreted to mean all is well. And Bridget supposed it
was—from a certain point of view.
    Meanwhile, Geoffrey’s face had transformed
into a look of stunned surprise, and he took a hesitant step
forward. “What did you say?”
    Ieuan smiled grimly and didn’t repeat
himself. He’d spoken loudly such that Geoffrey had to have heard
him. “It was an urgent matter, which the